o h . o h . o h

Happy Thanksgiving all! I've stolen away some time over the weekend to continue colouring these ladies. Hope that everyone is having a wonderful weekend.

m e o w

After an early-childhood trauma, I spent some time attending both individual and group therapy. The counselors who lead the group sessions stand out in my mind like the hosts of Polkaroo; they were all smiles and friendly encouragement and their sessions seemed more like fun than anything. One day, our group took turns role-playing the members of a family (I realize, in hindsight, to observe how typical our notions of family behaviour were); other children in the group elected to be the 'mom' or the 'dad', 'brother'; etc...wanting no part of that, I asked the leaders if I could be the cat instead.

At the time, I was oblivious, but now, I'm embarrassed.

I wanted to be the family pet. What did those therapists think of me? What does that say about me as a person?

(Despite what I can only imagine must have been uncomfortable reluctance, the leaders let me make my choice and I proceeded to crawl around on the floor and generally avoided participating in their exercise as a normal person).

s t u c k

Holiday weekends mean making the drive home from Toronto to Kitchener-Waterloo. In theory, it's a relatively quick and easy commute; some people even make it daily, opting to live in one city and work in another. Unfortunately for Josh and I, this easy trip habitually takes us triple the time to complete.

Last night, we hopped in the car at 5:00 and rolled into our destination around 8:30; that's three and a half hours stuck in traffic, cooped up and going crazy from hunger pains and claustrophobia. When I was younger, I relished long car trips; when we made the three hour trip up north to my cousin's farm, or journeyed one hour west to my aunt's house in London I would fill the backseat with pillows and games and snacks. Now, I feel beyond restless.

On the plus side, we got to witness a breathtaking sunset and I took advantage of the photo-op. As we drove, I told Josh the old rhyme which had comforted me as a paranoid child with a foul-weather phobia: Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky at morning, sailor's warning. I remember looping that saying as I drank in the blood-red horizon from the passenger or back seat of my mother's car, assuring myself that the next day would be calm and bright.

(For the record, today is nothing but blue skies and sunshine!)

f i s h y

Sally Solomon sits up in bed beside her boyfriend Don as he sleeps, watching late-night TV. Carefully, she peels back the metal lid on a tin of sardines, recoiling slightly as their pungent aroma wafts up to her nose; ooo, stinky, she says as she digs in.

•

Philip Fry sacrificed a fortune in order to procure the last can of anchovies on Earth.

•

My friend once told me how her mother pronounces their name 'anne-chois'; an elegant name for an elegant creature.

I first ate anchovies on a pizza (with bacon and extra cheese) which I shared with a boy who, at the time, I'd been quite enamored with (ultimately, he hadn't been on the same page as me). The fish were beautiful and salty and complex and almost fancy. Whenever I eat them now, I feel like I'm part of a secret members-only club (the 'people who like things which everyone else despises' club). The only drawback of indulging in anchovies(besides the sodium!) is the presence of their translucent bones, which tickle your mouth and throat like feathers as you swallow them. 

•

The tin of sardines pictured above was an impulse purchase; colourful little packages of fish were something I'd have previously filed away under "things never to buy" (much like pickled eggs or sauerkraut). I learned two things that day: one, that sardines and anchovies are not interchangeable; and two, that I should always read the ingredient labels of items before taking them home so as to not ingest MSG unnecessarily (sorry fish).

l a d y

I generally don't consider myself to be photogenic; I have a tendency to stand in unflattering positions or make weird faces when I try to smile.

Josh took these photos of me over the weekend, and we were both thrilled with how nicely they came out! "I'm so glad to finally have some nice pictures of you," he said. But as soon as we got home and he took a proper look at them, it soon became apparent that I'd had a bit of a wardrobe malfunction... (fall weather plus busty girl deciding not to wear a bra equals, well, you can imagine).

I'm laughing it off; to be honest, I'd rather have decent photos of myself with visible nips than pristine ones with me making an unintentionally silly face.

s n a p s h o t . i n . t h e . d a r k

j u s t . d a n c e

Crowds have become a crazy source of stress for me lately; I mainly blame the TTC for this and the daily hours which I now spend navigating stations in rush hour, getting trapped in turnstiles and shoved by strangers. It used to be that I'd shrug while someone else expressed their distress at visiting crowded locales — now I feel disoriented and slightly panicked when I'm faced with them.

It's not the being trapped that I fear; I think instead, it's the watchful eyes of people that I don't know and accidental collisions which make me nervous. I don't want to be the cause of displeasure; I don't want to be out of place or a nuisance.

Ironically, the crowd at a night club calms me; there in the darkness, I can lose myself amongst the bodies and pulsating noise. The semi-hedonistic ritual of dancing with reckless abandon is utterly freeing for me; albeit not foolproof, more often than not the mixture of obscurity and deafening music relieves me of every worry, every doubt and all of my unnecessarily self-imposed rules for polite behavior . In those anonymous moments, I can stop being the girl who ruins everyone's fun with her anxiety and simply be fun-girl.

•

I was a late bloomer in terms of youthful things like alcohol and partying. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I allowed my cousin to convince me to join her for a night out of drinking and dancing. I still remember the feeling of my awkward self-consciousness slowly abating as I stood at the edge of a room lit by red lights, watching as the crowd meandered in; there was a girl, dressed in schoolgirl blouse and kilt, dancing alone on the empty floor. She had her eyes closed and she moved with confidence and complete nonchalance; at the time I laughed, but now I am that girl.

i n t o . t h e . w o o d s

d r e a m

I recently had someone refer to my sketchbook as a 'book of dreams', after having left it face open on my desk after work. Whatcha got there in your book of dreams, they said; the page was rife with the swirling lines and happy face variations that I'd produced for a tattoo design request.

•

Lately, I've been experiencing episodes of exhausted disconnectedness; I'll get off the streetcar after a day at the office and wander aimlessly, looking into shops and at passing people in a daze. Last week I meandered up a street I'd never spent much time on for an hour or so, halfheartedly determined to buy something: a snack, some dinner, a book, a trinket. After passing plenty of interesting locations, I doubled back, entered a juice bar and realized that I had neither cash nor plastic; I shuffled awkwardly outside once more, balanced my purse on my knee and rifled around for a while. Eventually, I migrated to a bench, continued to dig around in the depths of my bag (cluttered with nail polish, pens, mints, receipts, pins, screws...) and found a handful of change.

I continued back down the sidewalk, coins in the palm of my hand. After some debate, I bought two dollars worth of strawberries from a fruit market (which was swarming with bees who kept swooping erratically past my head and colliding with their own reflections in the store's mirrored wall — so much anxiety). The sun had set by then, the street was bustling and cool.

Life is arbitrary — where we go, what we do. It's strangely pleasurable to disassociate from the structure of habitual life, to wander and let go of routine. 

c o l d

Quickly coloured sketch; mysterious man on a journey.

I like strong chins, big noses and skin glowing red from the cold.

o v e r . h e a r d

As heard spoken by a jubilant teenager on the Yonge-University line.

o h

I've been working on prints lately; getting ready to hand-colour these ladies soon.

o c t o b e r

I LOVE the fall. For me, it really is the most magical, enjoyable, comfortable part of the seasonal cycle; October is the month that fall/autumn really seems to kick off, and for that reason, it's one of my most beloved months.

OCTOBER, HOW DO I LOVE THEE?
LET ME COUNT THE WAYS:

I    
Cold weather = legitimate reasons to wear cardigans/tights/boots/scarves alllll the time (it should be noted that I literally dress this way all year long).

II    
Food Glorious Food!
There is no more perfect combination that Turkey+Mashed Potatoes+Gravy+Stuffing+Crans.

III  
Hallowe'en
DUH. Every year, without fail, I procrastinate/forget to think of a costume until the eleventh hour. This year, I'm trying to put some effort into things; I'm tossing it back and forth between Sailor Moon and Alice in Wonderland (although let's be honest, that's not a fair fight).
     
IV    
Thanksgiving Weekend
That's October 12th-14th this year for my non-canadian friends. Beyond the food, it's an excellent weekend of family shenanigans; I can't describe how much I love this holiday.

V  
I can now begin to legitimately plan out Christmas Presents (to give!)

•

I actually can't believe that Septemblur is over. Now that I'm no longer in school, it feels like a lame place holder month; nothing much happens, the weather is whatever and all of the bees go crazy (other stories for other times).

My best friend recently moved to Roncesvalles so I've been doing some exploring in the area lately (which, to be honest, is the most exploring I've done in Toronto in a while, for shame). Her neighbourhood is beyond adorable, and I've been (surreptitiously) snapping pictures like crazy!